


Pangs of Despised Love

by vixere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 'cuz guess what, Character Death, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, He comes back, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-10 20:16:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixere/pseuds/vixere
Summary: Enjolras had been ready to die for his cause, but Grantaire never thought he would.Nor that he would come back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this nearly a year ago on another account and then deleted it, so if anyone recognises it: don't worry, I didn't steal. Also, I've got the second chapter written so it will probably be posted soon after this. But I warn everyone: I am terribly slow on updates.

_If a man can bridge the gap between life and death, if he can live on after he's dead, then maybe he was a great man._

_\- James Dean_

 

The first time Grantaire saw Enjolras again after … the riot, he was drunk off his ass and unable to talk properly. It was night, or at least dark, and perhaps he was lying in a park, because he had felt grass underneath his fingers and seen something that could have been a street light. It was wet, probably from dew, and he let out a loud groan. _Fuckin’ hell,_ fuck _this -_

“How is it that I have never seen you, ever, in an appropriate state?”

The resentful voice made him stop, though his head continued spinning like it was no massive thing that he had heard – was it?

He looked up, even though his neck muscles protested, and peered at the street light. He could not make it out properly – everything had two or three shapes – but it looked like a park bench underneath said street light. And on it, someone was sitting. Grantaire groaned again, and peered more, and then froze.

He could see golden tresses in the light of the street lamp and some vague features – high cheek bones, pink lips, straight nose – and Grantaire gulped.

“W – What?” he said, sounds mixing together incomprehensibly.

The stranger let out a heavy sigh and Grantaire was nearly fooled because that sounded _exactly_ like Enjolras’ typical disappointment towards him.

“How and why anyone puts up with you is beyond my understanding. You – you look like a - a – well, like yourself, but _worse_!”

Grantaire let his head rest against the wet grass, but still with the bench in sight, trying to tidy up his messy thoughts. He opened his mouth to say something – “what the fuck”, “well, thank you, hallucination”, “fuck you” – but the only thing that came out was a quiet, slurred:

“You are dead.”

Enjolras seemed to tense up, and Grantaire could picture the mouth becoming a thin line and the eyes narrowing. But he said nothing, and Grantaire fell asleep, in the wet grass in a park in the night, thinking it really must be a hallucination, because the real Enjolras had never been that quiet.

 

The second time was three days later in Grantaire’s living room. He was standing before an empty canvas, staring at it with a paintbrush loosely between his fingers. He did not know how long he had been staring, but probably a long while, because the white light from the window was different. The small table in front of his couch – an old, brown thing – was filled with bottles, both paint-related and alcohol-related, and brushes that was in need of washing.

Before, he had been meticulous about his brushes. He had been careful with washing them after using them and always kept anything related with his painting away from tables or his usual, human mess that was littered everywhere.

Not now, though. Not after.

“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Grantaire nearly dropped the brush in his fright, turning around and meeting – oh, fuck, _fuck._

Enjolras. Standing in the doorway in the same clothes he had worn _that_ day, hair the same mess of curls but still in order in his typical way, and face closed off, cold but oh, so much the same the last time Grantaire had seen it.

Grantaire nearly smiled the old mocking smile he used to, months ago, but then he remembered.

“You are supposed to be dead.”

His voice came out colder than he meant to, but then, the other _did not fucking exist anymore,_ so he guessed politeness could be skipped.

“Yes, you said so last time”, illusion-Enjolras said, unusually uncomfortable.

“Uh, last time?” Grantaire asked, and really, was he talking to the illusion like something that was not made up by his own mind now?

The illusion raised an eyebrow, discomfort suddenly gone. “You don’t remember? In the park? Though, I guess that isn’t so strange, you were – “

“Like myself, but worse”, Grantaire cut off, suddenly remembering that night that he had excused to be a night with too much to drink. He had woken up in the park in the morning when a homeless person had shaken him, asking if he was alright. He had been hungover like never before and croaked a yes. By the time he had reached his flat he had put away the hallucination in the back of his mind.

“So, you do remember”, Enjolras said drily. “Impressive.”

“I have many impressive skills, remembering my nights out is one of them.”

“Hm, well from my understanding that isn’t really a good skill, considering what drunk people tend to do.”

Grantaire snorted. “’From my understanding’; what, have you never gone out yourself?”

“I was always busy. There were always better things to do”, Enjolras answered, and shrugged.

Grantaire tried to remember a time when Enjolras had gone out drinking with Les Amis but came up with nothing. He had gone out with them plenty of times, to talk and hold speeches, but he was suspiciously absent in those nights out.

“Huh”, Grantaire said. “Courfeyrac never tried?”

“I managed to get Combeferre to support my cause, and then he gave up after six months.”

Both turned silent and stared at each other. Enjolras stood still in the doorway, still in the red shirt and black trousers Grantaire remembered from that sunny, warm day when everything changed. He stood still as well, probably looking the same except with a more crooked nose and more unkempt hair and stubble. He wore one of his painting-shirts, which was baggy and filled with dried paint. Grantaire realised they had never talked to each other outside of Café Musain or Les Amis’ meetings. He had always been sitting in the back, shouting mockery and grinning and trying so hard to get those eyes to look at him, even if it was in disgust. Enjolras had in turn only spent time with Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Les Amis, though the latter had only been in revolutionary purposes. Light the fire and inspire them. Grantaire could not remember how he came to know of Enjolras, though he guessed it was because of Courfeyrac.

Everything could always be traced back to Courfeyrac.

“Have you … visited, anyone else?” Grantaire asked carefully.

 _You don’t even know if he is real,_ a voice, probably his neglected sense, reminded him.

Enjolras immediately looked uncomfortable.

“No, I – it took a while to figure this all out. I haven’t had the time.”

“’Haven’t had the time’”, Grantaire repeated, suddenly angry. “You’ve been dead. I’m pretty sure you’ve got all the time in the world.”

“I – you know what? I don’t want to talk about it”, Enjolras said, straightening and crossing his arms across his chest, like preparing for an onslaught.

Good thing Grantaire felt like giving him one.

“You don’t want to talk about it? You do realise there is not much else to talk about, right? You are standing in my living room, looking very real and sounding very real, even though I _know_ you –“, the words got stuck, “– died. You’ve been dead for _months_. They buried you. Combeferre had to prepare your funeral. Éponine told me about it, she told me she saw your coffin get lowered down into the ground. People were crying and all. You”, he said, pointing at Enjolras who had gone stiff, “are meant to be dead. So, don’t come here and say, ‘I don’t want to talk about it’.”

For the first time, Enjolras did not meet Grantaire’s eyes. He had always done it during their other confrontations, conviction and belief meeting mockery and unbelief.

 _I guess death changes you,_ Grantaire thought sarcastically.

“Everything is gone now, you know”, he said, suddenly cold because this was meant to _hurt_ , “Les Amis, the revolution, your work. It’s all gone. It went away with you.”

Enjolras closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if to say something, but then he was gone. Grantaire was left alone in his living room, wondering if it had been real. Enjolras had not really given him an answer.

 

The third time was a week later. Grantaire was down by a river, watching water rush by him, white foam standing out in the heavy darkness. He hung on the railing and above him a street lamp shed its light. It was chilly, but he did not mind. He was still thinking about Enjolras, while trying not to think about that day. It was proving to be a challenge. He considered going back to his flat and start drinking for the evening when he heard someone walk up and stand beside him.

One glance to the side proved him right: it was Enjolras in all his glory.

He looked the same. Of course he did. Grantaire continued to look down into the water. It was all that could be heard in the quiet night. He took notice of the absence of Enjolras’ breathing in the back of his mind.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

The illusion broke with those words dropping like stones.

“I can see why my presence might upset you. I can also see that my behaviour might have been ridiculous considering the circumstances.”

Grantaire snorted. Enjolras glanced at him.

“I didn’t mean to come back. And the only reason why I came to you was because, well, you kind of tumbled into me first. At the park.”

“You had just … been sitting there?” Grantaire asked, too curious to say nothing.

“Yes. For nearly three weeks.”

He chuckled at the look of disbelief Grantaire gave him. “I know, but like you said, I have all the time in the world. And everything goes by so fast now, it’s like …”

He sighed.

“It’s like you’re not part of it anymore. Life. Which is true, of course”, he added, “but still not easy to handle.”

“But are you, like …”, Grantaire tried to find the words, gesticulating with his hands before him, “… trying to find peace or something? Is that why you are here? Like in one of those books?”

Enjolras snorted, and Grantaire thought it was the most familiar sound he had made this whole time.

“No”, he answered. “Not like that. I’m not here to haunt people. I guess … I guess I’m here because I want to. But instead I’m just confused.”

Grantaire glanced at the other man. He was looking down into the water, face frowning but eyes sad.

“Well”, Grantaire said. “We are all confused sometimes. Except we tend to do that when we are living.”

“Perhaps I’m doing it because I never was when I was alive. Confused, I mean. I never doubted or hesitated.”

“No”, Grantaire agreed, suddenly bitter at the memory of _that_ day. “You never did.”

They stood in comfortable silence after that, until Grantaire started freezing and headed home. He did not dare ask Enjolras if he would follow. He did not, and Grantaire was left alone on his walk back, with thousands of questions running around in his head.

_Why were you here with me? Why are you afraid of meeting Combeferre and Courfeyrac? Are you disappointed in them, in Les Amis? Because they did not try more? Are you sad? Are you sorry? Will you disappear soon? Can you come back? Why did you do it? Can you fix all of this? Please, can you? Why did you die?_

_What happens now?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One week later! Here you have the second chapter. Also, I saw I had made this into a one-shot first, sorry!

After that night, the fourth and fifth and tenth time Enjolras appeared mixed together and Grantaire could not tell them apart. Enjolras came by when he wanted to, and Grantaire never asked where he had been. Where did ghosts go when they were not around the living?

He had decided to call Enjolras a ghost, though it did not really fit. For example, Enjolras could not move things nor walk through walls. It was strange to see him not being able to reach for anything but still having to go through doors like a normal person. Grantaire knew it irritated him because of all the times he complained about how he could not read any books.

A complaining Enjolras, he found, was a passionate Enjolras, and with that came his mixed feelings. He loved watching those eyes turn sharp and clear and the blonde curls falling across the face in the quick turns, and his hands making full gestures and his whole being showing that old _conviction_. Grantaire used to try to rile him up just to see that. Try the waters. See what would happen, even though he always knew the answer.

He still did it, but now he got to enjoy it on a more daily basis. Because of this, he also learned the backside of Enjolras’ passion.

(In the back of his mind, he already _knew_ what that passion could bring and ruin, but he splashed some paint on a canvas and ignored it.)

He would never _stop_.

Once he got upset, he could spend the rest of the night ranting about it, repeating himself until it could convince the most opposed to see fault. He walked back and forth in Grantaire’s living room, until the moon rose and replaced the sun and Grantaire took out his bottles because Enjolras did not expect him to be able to sleep with him making his floor creek the whole night, did he?

“If I could _do_ something, it would not be a problem”, Enjolras snapped, and Grantaire snorted from the couch where he was slouched.

“You’ve been like this for what? A month at least? One could expect you to find another way to vent.”

“Two and a half.”

“What?”

“I’ve been like this for two and a half months. Probably more, but I did not check the time at first”, Enjolras clarified. “If you don’t, it slips through your fingers.”

Grantaire was quiet for a moment, watching the other man, who was now standing still but clearly not done being irritated or angry, whatever he was, and being unaware of what it meant.

“Probably three months. Just over three months.”

Enjolras looked at him, and Grantaire nearly gulped when he was reminded of how blue those eyes were, and the intensity they bore. When Enjolras looked at you, you thought the archangel Michael stood before you, but with longer lashes and purer lips.

“How so?”

“Uh. The riot. It was in late May, remember? They … they buried you fast.”

All that old conviction seemed to seep out of him. Shoulders sunk, eyes turned away, getting glazed over, gestures gone.

“Right. I forgot.”

Enjolras forgot a lot, and Grantaire wished he could do as well.

 

One day, Enjolras saw a letter sent to Grantaire.

“Who is it from?” he asked and Grantaire drank his hot coffee, even though it was _clearly_ too hot.

He mumbled something but Enjolras ignored it and repeated the question. They were in Grantaire’s kitchen – _bohemian,_ Enjolras had called it the first time he saw the small table with only three legs and the two stools by it -, Grantaire sitting by the table with a steaming cup of coffee before him, being rundown from a long night, and Enjolras leaning in the doorway. Grantaire tried to stop himself from noticing how well Enjolras fit in that doorway.

He did not answer Enjolras’ question. Enjolras asked again.

“It’s none of your business”, Grantaire grunted.

A moment of silence. Enjolras’ eyes went back to the letter lying on the table in front of both of their eyes.

“It’s not opened”, Enjolras remarked.

“It’s still none of your business.”

“But how can you know it’s not important if you don’t _read_ it?”

“Because I already know what it says!” Grantaire answered, sudden and angry.

But Enjolras did not back down. He was used to meeting challenges.

“I doubt you can know what every letter you receive says”, he said, calm. “Especially if you don’t read them.”

Grantaire wondered if he would go away if he answered.

“It’s from my family.”

Enjolras seemed surprised. Grantaire guessed he had not pictured him with a family - he had only been that artist in the back who drank too much and was friends with Éponine. Grantaire could not blame him – even he sometimes forgot he had a mother and a father out on the countryside, who had smiles plastered on their faces, but one could never tell if they were real or not.

“Then why don’t you read them? Are you on bad terms?”

Grantaire glared at the other man, though he was amazed at the pink mouth at the same time.

“Of course, we are. Enjolras, I don’t open their letters, I don’t call them, I don’t meet them. Obviously, we are on bad terms. You don’t need to be a genius to see that.”

Enjolras just shrugged, not bothered at Grantaire’s sharp tone. “Relationships with family can look different. They don’t have to be like those clichés in movies or books. I was being open-minded.”

Grantaire snorted and Enjolras frowned at that and when he spoke again it was with a bit more edge.

“I only talked to my parents about my studies, nothing else. And I only called them, what, once a month? Both parties were happy with it. Nothing personal, nothing too often. Mum sent a postcard every now and then, but I didn’t have to answer.”

Grantaire tried to remember what he knew about Enjolras’ family. None had talked a lot about them; he remembered Courfeyrac mentioning his mother was a lawyer who was famous at the university and Feuilly telling him his father was some businessman with enough money to not work. They travelled a lot, according to Éponine. This he knew because that was the reason as to why they had not been at the funeral.

They had sent flowers, she had told him. Lilies. And a card.

“Well, seems like your loss”, Grantaire just said, feeling strange and a bit sad. Perhaps because Enjolras was not. He just looked confused. Then he disappeared and Grantaire was left alone in his kitchen, tongue still burnt from coffee.

 

Next day Grantaire woke up on his couch; he felt the lumpy cushions in his back and before he even opened his eyes he could tell he had an awful hangover to suffer through. He groaned as he tried to sit up and flinched when the headache began pounding in his head, as if it wanted to break his head open. It felt like his eyes were glued shut.

“Fuckin’ hell”, he grunted when he had sat up even though his mouth felt like Sahara.

The night before was a blur, but he believed he had called someone at midnight, but did not remember if they had picked up.

 _If it was Courfeyrac I’m going to kill my earlier self,_ Grantaire thought grimly and remembered the last time they had talked. It had ended in a shouting match about Enjolras and Enjolras’ death and Les Amis – _“what will happen now, Courfeyrac? Who will lead you? You are nothing without him! You are all_ useless _– “ –_ with Courfeyrac lashing out as fiercely as Grantaire – _“we can only go through it together! What was Enjolras without us?”_

Grantaire’s headache worsened just thinking about it and he rubbed his face with his hands and sighed. Sunlight flooded into his living room, and his white walls made it cold and unfeeling and harsh to his eyes. Grantaire remembered how Enjolras’ eyes used to be that way before. More burning of passion and cause, of course, but it had been a cold drive. It had only become warm when he had laughed, and he only did that with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. That was seldom. _Before he died,_ Grantaire thought and frowned, even though everything hurt.

Those cold eyes used to be cold, but now they … were not. He frowned more, when –

“Ah, we meet again, o haggard man, burdened by hangover.”

Enjolras stood before him, fine face bent into a smirk. Grantaire groaned louder at the noise but said nothing. 

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at his silence and the smirk fell away.

“Must be a bad one.”

Enjolras had met a hungover Grantaire many times since that time in the park.

Grantaire looked at him. The difference from his memories were striking. This was not the Enjolras from his nightmares, from the riot, when he stood in the sunlight, above them all, eyes filled with a vision, ready to take over the world. _He’s crippled,_ Grantaire thought. _He’s dead,_ another part of him thought.

He then remembered their last conversation. About the letter and his parents. Then Enjolras’ parents. _They sent lilies and a fucking card to their son’s funeral_.

“Did your parents really love you?”

Enjolras stiffened considerably, clearly not ready to take on this in the morning. Afternoon. Whatever.

“Where - … “ he began, then reconsidered:

“I believe so.”

He did not sound convinced, but rather small.

“I … “, he continued, “I never had any reason to not think they did.”

“Were you at the funeral?” Grantaire asked, still dry in the mouth and throat, and feeling the headache pounding.

“No.”

“They sent you flowers. And a card. You know, like your mother did sometimes. When you were _alive_.”

He wondered if it hurt like it was meant to. Enjolras swallowed and looked down on the floor. Grantaire guessed he traced the lines of the wood, and then the lines of the floorboards, how they fit together. He had done it so many times himself, with a white canvas before him, as empty as his head.

“What did it say? The card?”

“I don’t know. Éponine didn’t tell me.”

Silence.

“Did my sister come?”

“What”, Grantaire said, shocked.

Did Enjolras have a _sister_?

“I take that as a no”, Enjolras just said, not noticing Grantaire’s stare. “I guess she was busy. Work. She always said that’s how you achieve change. One must work. I always did.”

The last sentence was said quietly and Grantaire realised perhaps he had looked at the wrong part of family. Perhaps Enjolras’ just had not been his parents.

“Hold on”, he said, though it sounded more like a croaked whisper. “Sit down. Sister?”

Enjolras looked up, a bit amused.

“Go and drink some water first.”

Grantaire did and came out of the kitchen with a bottle – all the glasses were dirty – of water and some aspirin, finding Enjolras on the couch. He sat down beside him and flinched at the dull pain. He drank from the bottle and the turned to the other man.

“Sister?”

“Older”, Enjolras told him. “Nearly thirteen years. She works in Geneva, in the UN, with human rights. We – we talked a lot.”

Grantaire tried to imagine an older, female version of Enjolras, and the result was a scary one. Enjolras continued.

“She came to visit sometimes when I was young, but as I grew up it was more frequently. She taught me a lot, like human rights. _We who can speak,_ she said once, _we speak for the ones who cannot._ We called each other every weekend when I started university. I – I would have expected her at the funeral.”

“Uhm. She might have been there. Éponine wouldn’t know what she looked like.”

 _Or that she existed,_ he thought.

“Did anyone else know about her?”

Enjolras looked at him like he could not understand why he asked.

“Of course. Combeferre and Courfeyrac met her every time she visited me.”

“Then I’m sure she was there. They must have invited her”, Grantaire said, hoping it sounded reassuring.

 

“You’ve ever been in love?”

Grantaire only raised his eyebrows in shock.

“Uh”, he got out.

They sat in the same park Grantaire had first met ghost-Enjolras. Grantaire sat, clad in thick clothes, and chewed on a dry sandwich he had made beforehand. The weather had, despite being chilly, been nice and Grantaire had felt trapped in his little flat and therefore he had gone out. The ghost had followed. Enjolras sat in the same clothes he always had on him, from that day in May. Grantaire tried not to stare too long.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. It seems to be something people do.”

“Yeah, it is. It’s a rather big deal in life”, Grantaire said, thinking about his parents and how they had been so focused on the love life of everyone in their little village.

“Hm.”

Enjolras sounded disapproving. Grantaire took another bite of his sandwich. He had learned that it was better to leave the talking to Enjolras. Which suited him just fine, because talking did not come easy to him. Too many years spent in his parents’ house.

“It’s never been for me”, Enjolras eventually said, then, after a moment, corrected himself: “It never _was_ a big deal for me.”

“Yeah, well”, Grantaire started but did not know how to continue. _What do you say to that?_

“You’re special. The same rules don’t apply to you.”

_That, apparently._

If Grantaire could not make himself any more obvious. It was okay, though, because Enjolras did not notice.

“Why?” he asked instead, blond locks falling around his head as he turned to Grantaire and looked at him as if demanding an answer. “Why am I special?”

Why did Grantaire get all the difficult questions this particular afternoon?

“I don’t fucking know! These are the sort of question you ask yourself when you’re a teenager. Not twenty-something and dead!”

The last sentence rang out like the church bells in Grantaire’s home town. When everything was empty and closed because everyone was in the church. He could see the empty streets he used to walk before him and remember how eerily quiet it had been but for the church bells filling the silence. It was a similar feeling now, on a bench in a city far from that town and with a man he was terribly in love with sitting beside him. A man who had stood alive in sunlight in May the same year, looking radiant and ready, until he had not.

Now he looked pale. Then he frowned and looked fierce.

“Well, I didn’t! I didn’t think about it! Why should I? I had a cause, Grantaire! It was far more important.”

Grantaire felt his face twitch and could feel the familiar anger rise again and the bitter words spilled from his mouth before he could think about it.

“Yeah. It always was. Always. Perhaps you’re paying for it. Because you clearly have to think about it now.”

Enjolras looked like he wanted to bolt, but something kept him seated. He looked angry and Grantaire wondered if he used to be this easy to rile up at Café Musain. On the other hand: Grantaire had never had anything personal to use against him. And this was personal. Highly personal.

“Yes, perhaps I am paying for it.”

The conversation seemed to end there and seep into heavy silence until Enjolras, much less bitter, said:

“Eat your sandwich.”

Grantaire did, even though it was a bit dry.

 

By the middle of September Enjolras followed Grantaire whenever he went outside. Grantaire suspected it had to do with Enjolras wanting to get out into the crowds again. The man was meant for the masses. He was not a prisoner, but it was easier to not walk into people when you could trail behind someone else. Grantaire always grinned at Enjolras’ obvious frustration of having to adjust his walking to others’ speed and directions. It made his cheeks flush and Grantaire had a painting planned out in that exact colour.

Anyway, on a Saturday in the middle of September, Enjolras followed Grantaire to the food store. It was chilly outside so Grantaire wore one of his worn jackets, while Enjolras trailed behind him, still in clothes fit for the pleasant May sun. Grantaire wondered if anyone else could see him, but then he realised that no, of course they could not. People would recognise him from the news as the revolutionary who had tried but died. People _should_ recognise him as the revolutionary who had tried but died. Enjolras was not meant to be one of those who people heard about – or saw – on the news and then forgot about.

“What are you thinking?” Enjolras asked as he came up beside him, leaves crunching underneath his shoes.

“Uh”, Grantaire hesitated. “The news.”

Enjolras looked at him like he wanted to say _really? You think I’m fooled?_

“You don’t even have a TV in your home, how could you have watched the news?”

Grantaire made a noise which was meant to sound irritated.

“I have internet, you know? It’s filled with news.”

“I am well aware. I used to be very active there, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. You were like, the worst on Twitter”, Grantaire said but was close to grin at the memory.

Combeferre had told Enjolras plenty of times, in front of Les Amis, that he should not be so hostile in his tweets all the time.

 _“I’m considering refusing you coffee next time you offend an US politician”,_ he had once said.

 _“I’m not someone you can just cut off from caffeine. Know, if you do, I can always take my nightly rants to your and Courfeyrac’s bedroom”,_ Enjolras had answered and Combeferre had gone quiet. _“Also, they get more ridiculous the more you question them; it’s good training.”_

 If Grantaire remembered correctly, Courfeyrac had then joined the discussion, taking Enjolras side, because ‘ _please babe I don’t want to hear about capitalism in the middle of the night, it has already ruined Christmas, I don’t want it to do the same to my sleep cycle’._ Unfortunately, the meeting had then begun, and Grantaire missed how they fixed it.

“It was comedy”, Enjolras said and brought Grantaire back to the present.

“Yeah, yeah”, Grantaire said as he walked through the doors to the food store. Enjolras followed.

 

One day, someone knocked on Grantaire’s door and Grantaire being Grantaire, just continued to paint. He finally had some inspiration; one had to use it before it disappeared again.

After several knocks Enjolras, who sat in the kitchen doing whatever, shouted:

“Open the door!”

His voice broke Grantaire’s ability to concentrate on the canvas. Enjolras said a lot of things and Grantaire would never ignore any of it, even if he could. Which he could not.

He opened the door. It was Éponine.

God, Éponine. She was the friend Grantaire never deserved. She was the one person in the world who needed to be treated right, and never was.

She lifted her chin and looked directly at him and his dirty shirt.

“Uhm”, he greeted, rubbing his neck. “Hi.”

“Hello, idiot”, she greeted back and let herself inside.

Grantaire closed the door and sent a look towards the kitchen and did indeed see Enjolras sitting by the table, curiously looking up. _She doesn’t see him,_ he realised as he watched her standing in his living room, acting as if they were alone.

Éponine had always known about Grantaire’s … admiration for Enjolras. It had been something they had in common, except Éponine had her eyes glued on Marius Pontmercy. At least, she used to. Grantaire had not met her in months, because that was what had happened after the riot, after the funeral; something had died – Enjolras had died – and everything in Grantaire’s life that had once been a fixture … was no more.

“I haven’t seen you in a while”, she said and Grantaire saw Enjolras move to the doorway, looking at her as if he saw her for the first time. Perhaps he thought he did; perhaps he had not noticed her before.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

Éponine deserved apologies.

“Not since I came by after the funeral.”

The funeral had been in early June. Now it was September.

“Yeah, I … I haven’t been in a great place.”

Grantaire had to think to remember the last time he had been. Perhaps when he was in his early teens? Or just when he had moved away from his parents? The freedom had been stifling, he remembered.

Éponine snorted and turned towards the still wet canvas. “No one has, R. No one has been in a great place lately.”

Or when he had met Courfeyrac? Seen Enjolras for the first time? Heard the beautiful man conquer a room filled with strangers?

She turned back to him. Enjolras leaned on the doorframe. Grantaire tried not to let his eyes trail back to him. People did not stare at empty doorways.

“But you especially haven’t.”

Grantaire froze.

_He’s right there, Éponine. You don’t see him, but he’s here. He doesn’t know – please, don’t-_

“He’s dead but you’re not.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at that, most likely finding the curt sentences amusing, and Grantaire felt his eyes on him before they moved back to Éponine. She continued, staring at Grantaire, as if to hold him in place:

“None of us are. He may have meant a lot to everyone, more so to you – “

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac knew him best”, Grantaire cut off, feeling the need to _not speak about it in front of said person._

But Éponine did not know. She did not know Enjolras stood _right there_ , hearing every word. Seeing Grantaire’s willingness to avoid it.

“But you loved him most.”

It felt like a stone falling. No, it felt like stone being _thrown_. Through a damn window, smashing the glass into shards and spilling around him. Enjolras’ eyes flashed to him and Grantaire swallowed, feeling his heart beating. It felt like the temperature in his flat had sunk rapidly. A ghost thing, perhaps?

“And Combeferre and Courfeyrac didn’t?” he challenged clumsily, throat thick. He did not know why he tried; it was out. Éponine frowned, confused about why he asked about things they both knew, trying to make it difficult.

“Of course, they did. I didn’t say they didn’t. But R, I sat at the back with you. I _saw_ you”, she said, and then added bitterly: “Which is more than he did.”

“Marius didn’t see you either. He never did.”

Éponine deserved apologies. She did not deserve _this_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter comes at an undecided date. Sorry, darlings, I'll try to finish it as soon as possible.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a kudos or comment if you liked it!


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